Beneath the Surface
by Taaroko
Summary: A collection of unrelated Buffy/Angel one-shots. Includes altered versions of scenes, explorations of the thoughts and feelings of the characters at specific moments, scenes that might have happened off-screen in canon, and more. Enjoy and review!
1. A Timelier Interruption

So, I'm still kind of shellshocked from issue 34 of the season eight comics, and I felt the need for some less, uh, R-rated Buffy/Angel stuff (because, holy CRAP), but I didn't feel up to drawing anything (yet), and this is the result. It's actually an idea I had probably around the first time I ever watched this episode, so I'm a little surprised it's taken me this long to write.

Disclaimer: They belong to Joss, and I'm definitely not him.

**Update, as of 9/23/10**: Okay, I've got a couple more Buffy/Angel one-shots now, and I'd rather have them all in one place than post them as separate fics, so I'm grouping them together with this one. So far, they're all set in the episode "Angel", but that could easily change in future.

* * *

Setting: At the Bronze, right after Buffy learns about Angel's soul. What if it had taken Darla a few minutes longer to get to the Bronze, giving Buffy and Angel more time alone? Slightly off-canon.

Inspiration: My irritation that there wasn't as much snogging in the episode as there could have been.

Perspective: Buffy's.

* * *

"I can walk like a man, but I'm not one," said Angel, and his gaze pierced Buffy far more deeply than it ever had before. "I wanted to kill you tonight."

Buffy's eyes flickered to her crossbow and then back to his face. After a second's hesitation, she set the crossbow on the floor and slowly walked forward. His confusion at her actions was obvious, but there was something soft in his dark eyes now. She stopped just within arm's reach of him and, without breaking eye contact, tilted her head to the side, exposing her neck. "Go ahead," she said.

He stared at her, not speaking. For a moment, his eyes moved down to focus on her throat. She couldn't identify their expression. Surprise? Fear? …Hunger? Before she could decide whether it had been one of those or none of the above, he had gone back to staring directly into her eyes. Her breath caught at the overwhelming tenderness on his face as he looked at her, and it was as if his soul had suddenly become visible to her. The last traces of her wariness and doubt vanished.

"Not as easy as it looks," she said with a slight smile. The corners of his mouth barely twitched, but she could see his answering smile sparkling in his eyes. He moved closer to her, and she was reminded irresistibly of their kiss the night before. Her heart skipped faster in anticipation. Wait—he was a vampire. Did she still want that? Her eyes still on his face—his handsome, angelic face with that unbearably tender expression that was all for _her_—it took less than a second to realize that the answer to that question was a resounding _yes_.

One of Angel's hands came up to caress the same side of her throat that she had just offered him. His touch was cool—of course. She couldn't believe she hadn't noticed that before. Her eyes drifted closed and she leaned into the pressure as his thumb traced the line of her jaw. Slowly, as though dealing with a frightened creature that might bolt if she made any sudden movements, she closed the little remaining distance between them and reached up to wrap her arms around his neck.

While their first kiss had rapidly progressed from tentative to passionate, this one remained slow and careful, yet it was somehow deeper for the improved understanding between them. Perhaps due to the more relaxed pace, Angel didn't lose control or pull away this time, but held her close and poured every ounce of the tenderness that had lit up his features so beautifully into the kiss. Buffy felt a surge of joy and warmth in her racing heart, and she wondered if this was what falling in love felt like.

"Looks like I underestimated her after all."

The cold, sneering—jealous?—voice sliced into their private world like a knife. They immediately jumped apart to face the intruder, feeling almost painfully bereft in the aftermath of their broken moment.


	2. Prowler

My muse has been refusing to let me work on "Season 9" until I work the kinks out of the final arc (very big, crippling kinks I've foolishly avoided dealing with since the beginning of the season, and which pretty much can't be avoided anymore), and there are only a couple of them left. School and work have me very busy again, so I haven't been able to do a whole lot of writing, but I do at least have these little morsels for you to prove that I still exist. Enjoy! (And also review.)

* * *

Setting: The beginning of the episode "Angel", when Buffy decides to leave the Bronze early because she's not in the partying mood.

Inspiration: The fantastically ferocious expression on Angel's face when he pulled the main vamp from the Three away from Buffy. Seriously. It's amazing.

Perspective: Angel's.

* * *

From his position behind the stairs, Angel watched Buffy get up from her table and make her way towards the exit, trying not to feel elated by what she had said about him to the redhead. Halfway to the door, she stopped and looked around, and he hastily melted into the shadows. She left, and he began to move towards the exit as well. She'd taken out enough of the Master's followers that retribution was sure to come soon. He had to know she was safe.

"Ooh, I was hoping I'd see you here again," said a breathy, excited voice from right in front of him, fracturing his concentration. His eyes refocused from the door to a curvy brunette girl in a slinky, spaghetti strap dress, who was standing daringly close to him. "The regular crowd can get so boring sometimes," she went on, moving even closer. "I'm Cordelia. Want to dance?"

He felt a flare of impatience as he looked back from her to the door, wondering what would be the easiest way to get rid of her. He decided on the direct approach, while marveling grimly at how unlikely this scenario would have been when he was human. "I have to go," he said bluntly, and moved around her with slightly more difficulty than he would have expected.

He was barely half a block away from the Bronze when Buffy's scent was joined by those of three vampires. He didn't recognize the specific scents, but it wasn't hard to guess whose they were. The Three. Angel hadn't met them in person, but he had spent enough time with Darla to have heard of them. Warriors. Minions without minds of their own. Some of the Master's finest. Back then, he had sneered at the idea of such unswerving loyalty from vampires as powerful as they were rumored to be, but not tonight.

His pace increased to a sprint no human could match. Soon, he was following sound as well as smell; the fight had begun. He could hear their growls, her voice, and the dull thuds of fists against flesh. He was furious at himself for not getting to her sooner, and even more furious at the Master for sending them to kill her.

Never, in two and a half centuries, had it been so hard to keep his human features in place, and he knew at least one growl escaped his throat when he rounded the corner into the alley and saw that one of them was leaning in to sink his fangs into her neck while the other two held her immobilized. He could smell her fear and had no idea how he managed hold back and merely seize the first vampire by his long hair and punch him in the face when everything in him was screaming to rip the bastard's head from his shoulders with his bare hands, then do the same to the others.

He continued to fight only the first one and in his berserker's wrath was a split second from abandoning pretense and fighting with all the force of the centuries-old demon he was, but then the sound of Buffy getting slammed up against the chain link fence broke through his rage and he immediately went to her aid instead. She cried a warning, and a searing pain lanced across his side, but he couldn't care less about that as long as she got out of this alive.

They made it to her house. Her invitation, unwittingly though it had been offered, was enough to break to break him out of his fury at last. He remembered to act like he was out of breath, and slipped back into the role she expected him to play.


	3. Enthralled

Setting: During the episode "Angel", as Buffy and Angel are heading up to her room the night the Three attacked. (She still doesn't know he's a vampire.)

Inspiration: A conversation with **Kairos Impending** about how Angel's voice almost never has the seductive undertone Angelus's always has, which led us to wonder whether it's a constant effort on Angel's part *not* to deliberately draw Buffy in.

Perspective: Angel's.

* * *

It would be so easy to seduce her.

He could visualize it even more clearly than the memories that tormented him. A subtle shift in the tone of his voice, in the intensity of his gaze, in the way he moved. She wouldn't even realize what he was doing. The genuine, terrifyingly powerful feelings he had harbored for her for months meant he wouldn't have to fake his sincerity. A first, for him.

Some of those feelings were already reciprocated. Her sarcastic coolness hadn't fooled him for a second. The way her eyes lit up and then lingered on him just a little longer than they needed to, the way her breathing was a little less controlled when he was near, the way her pulse raced far faster than it usually did when he looked at her, and the way her hands had trembled against his bare skin when she bandaged his wound. The foundation was already laid. Now it would be but the work of a moment, and she would trustingly follow wherever he led.

He wouldn't even need to use thrall—not that he'd ever needed it before. It was something on which he had once prided himself. The demon with the face of an angel. His prey came willingly unless he wanted it not to.

It really required more of a conscious effort _not_ to seduce her. The countless times he'd gone through those motions before, living or dead, had made them reflexive and automatic, and not even a hundred years without practice had changed that.

He had already slipped up in a few places. He'd been going for aloof, but had apparently come across as mysterious. He'd given her his jacket. He'd _said_ she looked cold, but he knew what had been the real cause of her shiver. She had flirted with him in the kitchen earlier, and he had flirted back, even allowing her a glimpse of the smile that existed beyond his smirk.

It would be so easy….

But then he remembered that he was a vampire, and she was the Slayer. That he was as strongly tempted by her blood as by her body, and sometimes more. That she was young and innocent—two things he hadn't been since before her country was founded. That she deserved so much more than he could ever give her.

She offered the bed, but he insisted on the floor. He kept his back turned while she changed and did not sneak a single glance in her direction. His resolve faltered, and he told her how pretty she looked when she went to sleep. He felt the heat as her cheeks glowed with pleasure from the compliment. With a sinking feeling, he realized that he wouldn't even last another day.


	4. Eternity

Setting: Behind the scenes in "Enemies", shortly after Giles, Buffy, Angel, and Giles's glowy-eyed mage friend plan the soul-removal fake-out.

Inspiration: The irritating lack of attempts in canon to close the loophole in Angel's curse. (Seriously, it never even occurred to them to _try_? Or even _talk_ about it?)

Perspective: Buffy's.

* * *

"Do you really have the power to take Angel's soul away?" asked Buffy. Even though he was a friend of Giles's, she felt slightly nervous addressing the shadowy mage—particularly when his glowing orange eyes locked with hers.

"I do."

A chill swept through her at the thought, and she shifted her weight uneasily from one foot to the other. "Then…" She swallowed, hesitating, but she was quickly able to push past the feeling that she would be overstepping her bounds with what she was about to ask. "When you pretend to take it away, would you be able to make it so he can't lose it again instead?"

For a long moment, he watched her silently. She couldn't read his expression, but she had the distinct impression that he was looking _into_ her, rather than merely _at_ her. Despite how uncomfortable that idea was, she determinedly held his gaze. She wasn't ashamed of her request. It wasn't something she was asking for herself, even though the selfish part of her, the part that ached for Angel and was sick of self-restraint, wanted it so badly that she could scream. Angel wasn't allowed to be happy with his curse the way it was, and that was too heartbreaking of a fate for the one she loved for her to contemplate. All she wanted was for him to be happy, to make him happy after the torment he had suffered both within his own mind and in the hell to which she had sent him. Seeing him suffer but being prohibited from comforting him was unbearable.

All of this welled up inside her until she thought her chest might collapse under the pressure. She waited for his answer.

"It is within my power," he said slowly, and her heart leapt. "But I will not."

The breath rushed out of her lungs as if someone had forcibly extracted it. "What?" she said, her voice quavering and weak.

"I regret to cause you pain, young Slayer. I can see how deeply you care for him."

"Then why—," she began, but he cut her off.

"I would much sooner remove it than bind it to him," he said, still speaking in the same calm, even voice, "but I will defer to the request of Rupert Giles in repayment of the debt I owe him."

"Why would you want to remove it?" she demanded angrily, blinking hard in an attempt to stop herself from crying in front of him. "Why won't you just make it permanent if you can?"

"The human soul is harmonious with life, and was never meant to reside within the body once life has left it. For his to have been made to do so is unnatural and the results unstable. I cannot condone it. However, the consequences of removing the remaining avenues for his soul's escape would be direr still. He would be free to pursue his happiness, but if he were killed, his soul, already irrevocably bound to him in death, would be unable to move on. It would remain eternally shackled to the ashes: broken, fragmented, and scattered to the winds."

Buffy's gaze dropped to the ground in bitter defeat, and she was no longer able to prevent tears from streaking her face.

The mage continued speaking, and now a measure of gentle apology entered his tone. "You see his suffering now and wish to end it. But as long as the demon animates him, it cannot end. I am sorry I cannot grant your wish."


	5. Waltz

This one is a bit longer than the rest of these, but I think it still fits into the same sort of category of introspective Buffy/Angel short fic-ness, so I'm posting it here. It started out as a series of rosebuds (Buffy/Angel one-shots of 500 words or less, based around a prompt word) for a community on LJ, but then it became one of the bonus fics for the 2010 IWRY Marathon instead.

Setting: Angel's apartment, somewhere between "Ted" and "Bad Eggs".

Inspiration: It occurred to me after my recent re-watch of "Halloween" that if Xander retained Soldier Guy's memories and skills, then Buffy must have retained just as much from the 18th century noblewoman.

Perspective: Angel's for the first half, Buffy's for the second.

* * *

Angel couldn't bring himself to feel any regret or anger that Spike and Drusilla had nearly killed him in their ritual to restore Drusilla's strength—not when one consequence was that Buffy had been spending a couple of hours with him at his apartment every day since. However, he was resigned to the fact that, soon, this convenient excuse for her to come over so often would no longer apply. The debilitating weakness and exhaustion had almost completely left him, the holy water burns had healed, and all that remained of the wound in his hand was a fading scar. In at most two days, he'd be completely back to normal. Sometimes accelerated healing wasn't such a good thing.

His heart leapt when he heard her coming down the stairs in the outer hallway, and he grew even happier when she entered the apartment without knocking. She offered a slightly sheepish smile when her eyes met his. "Hey," she said, closing the door behind her.

He returned the greeting and smiled back at her, then noticed that she was carrying a large paper bag. His eyes widened in surprise. "Is that—"

"Yesterday, I noticed you were running low," she explained hastily, a hint of a blush rising in her cheeks. "So I stopped by the butcher's earlier."

"Thanks," he said, unable to think of anything else to say. He felt both touched that she would do something like that for him and ashamed of the automatic surge of hunger he felt. It was an odd combination.

He suddenly found himself thinking back to the long interval between their second kiss and their third. He had been trying to stay away from her, knowing he didn't deserve her, but his resolve hadn't held for long. It was funny how he could resist the temptation of human blood for decades at a time, but he could only resist his yearning to be a part of her life for a few months.

By now, he'd stopped trying. He had told her about Drusilla, his greatest sin, and she still loved him. She could look on him with the same tenderness in her eyes when his features were vampiric as when they were human, and kiss either face without reserve. He had never asked or expected her to do it, but she had come every evening after school or patrol (and sometimes both) to aid him in his recovery—he hadn't told her that her presence alone was a more soothing balm than anything she could actually do to physically treat his wounds. And now here she was, serenely humming the tune of an unfamiliar pop song to herself as she unloaded containers of pigs' blood into his fridge. The knowledge that he didn't deserve her couldn't stand up against such devotion and acceptance.

†

"What's wrong?" asked Angel.

Buffy jumped and looked up at him. He stared at her with a mixture of puzzlement and concern.

She had recently finished removing the now-unnecessary bandages from his hand, after which she had curled up on his lap in the armchair, and they had fallen into a peaceful silence. He always reveled in moments like these, when he could reflect in awe on the fact that this was where she had chosen to be, her head nestled in the crook of his neck and her fingers idly playing with his. But when he looked down at her face, he noticed the vague frown that had appeared there, and the slight crease marring her normally smooth brow.

"Oh," she said, then smiled apologetically. "It's nothing, I just…."

"What?" he said, tilting his head slightly.

Buffy grimaced. "You're gonna think it's stupid."

"Tell me."

"Okay," she said. "You know how I got turned into a real eighteenth century girl on Halloween?"

"Yeah," he said. His brow furrowed. "You don't still think I wish you were one, do you?"

"No, it's not that," she said reassuringly. "I still remember that girl's life, and there are a lot of reasons I'm really glad it isn't mine, even though there _were_ one or two nifty things thrown in."

Angel raised an eyebrow and the corners of his mouth lifted. "Like what?"

"Well, I can write in this gorgeous scripty cursive if I want to now," she said brightly. "I could also out-Queen's English and etiquette Giles, but it's more fun to horrify him with my American-ness. Oh, and I think I could play some pretty intense Haydn on the pianoforte—I mean, _piano_, if I had one." She trailed off, frowning again.

"But?"

"But all the eighteenth century dances I know are completely useless!" she exploded crossly.

Angel let out a burst of laughter that momentarily distracted her. It felt wonderful to do, and he hoped she wouldn't be annoyed that it came at the expense of her frustration, but he couldn't help it. He had a sudden powerful urge to tell her exactly how much he loved her, but he mastered it and instead asked, his eyes still full of mirth, "What's wrong with eighteenth century dances?"

He watched the heat rising in her face until she looked away from him. "None of them are pair dances," she mumbled. "Except the minuets," she amended, wrinkling her nose. "But those look really goofy."

He briefly lifted the eyebrow again. "You missed the pair dances by a few decades. Especially since you were part of the nobility. Pair dancing was still considered scandalous and immoral then, particularly in England." Which was exactly what he had loved about it in those days.

"And those are the refined, elegant dances, these days," Buffy mused dryly. Then she pouted indignantly. "None of the dances I got from being Miss Dainty Nobleman's Daughter are romantic at all, though! I always thought that was what balls were like back then, but so much for that treasured childhood fantasy."

"You want to know a romantic dance?"

She was blushing again, but seemed to be trying not to let it get to her this time. "Well, yeah. If I did…if I did, then it would mean I'd know one from back then that maybe nobody else but you knows how to do firsthand anymore." She ducked her head and began fidgeting with the edge of the armchair's cushion. "And then it would be something from your past that we could share, and it would only be ours."

He spent the next few seconds in another silent wrestling match against his increasingly overwhelming need to confess his feelings for her aloud, and he had only barely conquered it when she glanced hesitantly at him.

"I could teach you," he said softly, shifting a little and reclaiming her hands with his.

†

They moved to the center of the apartment where the floor was free of furniture, and Angel released Buffy's hands and stepped back.

"So, what dance are we doing?" she asked eagerly.

"You'll see," he said with a mysterious smile.

"But how am I going to know which steps to do if I don't even know what the dance is?" she said, pouting.

"All you have to do is follow my lead."

"Okay." She felt slightly nervous, but the look on his face reassured her.

He bowed.

She curtsied.

He stepped forward until his body was only a few inches away from hers, but slightly off-center, so that his right foot fell just to the inside of hers. He took her right hand in his left, guided her left up to rest on his shoulder, and placed his right a few inches below her shoulder blade.

"What about music?" she asked, frowning.

He flashed that mysterious smile again, and due to the physical contact, it was impossible to pretend it didn't make her go weak in the knees this time. "I've got all the music I need."

She had no idea what he meant by this, but was now too intent on looking into his eyes to want to burden the moment with more words. He stepped to the side, and she followed; the subtle pressure he exerted with each hand told her exactly how she needed to move. Now he stepped back, then brought their feet back together, and then they did it all over again, traveling in a small square that turned slowly counterclockwise. They went a few repetitions stepping backward, then stepped forward for the next few.

Angel's movements were deliberate, yet so fluid that Buffy almost felt like they were floating from one step to the next, and she was surprised at how smoothly she was able to follow his lead without ever having done this before. She wondered if it had something to do with the particular rhythm he was setting; even without music, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

The first time he moved his hand away from her back, she barely managed to stifle a squeak of surprise, but miraculously did not lose her footing as he brought their joined hands inward and over her head, leading her into a twirl. When she faced him again, he changed the footwork. Now they stepped back first, then to the side. Somehow, this alteration made the dance much more energetic.

She was amazed at how the tempo seemed to be increasing without breaking away from that natural rhythm at all. They cut a larger path across the apartment floor, and they spun into faster revolutions, going full circles in three steps, her back arched and their bodies coming into full contact from chest to waist, spinning tightly around the invisible axis that seemed to exist in the millimeters of space between his right leg and hers.

†

Buffy had forgotten that they were in a dimly lit basement apartment, Angel dressed in a white undershirt and black sweatpants and she in the clothes she had worn to school; they had gone back in time to a nineteenth century ballroom lit by vast crystal chandeliers, he wore a tailored suit complete with waistcoat and neck cloth, and she a beautiful ball gown of flowing silk that swirled and billowed around her at the slightest movement.

With the more energetic pace and footwork came more and more interesting moves. The twirls became more elaborate, where he would spin her out away from him until their arms were fully outstretched and only the tips of their fingers were still touching, then pull her back in and tuck her against his chest again.

The third time this happened, she was still facing away from him when he brought her back against him, and she realized that somewhere in the midst of her twirl, he had deftly switched hands so that he was cradling her left hand in his, while his right rested gently at the side of her stomach. She moved her own right instinctively to cover it, and they danced on. She was surprised to find that not being able to see his movements in this position did not impair her ability to follow them in the slightest, though it did add an oddly thrilling sense of precariousness to the steps.

Angel released her left hand and raised his right, transferring hers back to his left after yet another twirl, and they were facing each other again. With his right hand once more on her back, and her left returned to his shoulder, he slid his right leg back and bent his left knee slightly, and she felt herself fall into a graceful dip, the hand at her back easily supporting her weight.

They remained in that pose for a long moment, savoring the end of the dance as nineteen ninety-seven settled back in around them. Buffy was sure she could state categorically that nothing she had ever done before this qualified as dancing. For the first time, she became aware of how rapidly her heart was beating, and she suddenly realized what his music and her natural rhythm had been all along.

He slowly drew her back up until they were standing normally again, then smiled. Conveniently, he hadn't let go of her yet, so she simply pulled their joined hands in towards them, moved the hand still on his shoulder up to the back of his neck, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. As fast-paced as the dance had been at the end, this was much slower—the more tranquil portion of the coda.

"Thank you for the dance, kind sir," she said after they broke apart, sweeping back into the final curtsey, unable to suppress a broad grin.

"The pleasure was mine, milady," he replied with a bow; his own grin was all in his eyes.

* * *

The footwork change signified a historical period shift. The waltz step was side-back-together at first, but it changed to back-side-together once the ladies started wearing more danceable dresses. And, incidentally, that dip there at the end of the dance would have left Buffy's neck very, very exposed. Just so you know.

Also, I drew the part where her ballroom fantasy fades back into their actual modern setting and attire: http:/ /taaroko. deviantart. com/ art/ Waltz-flash-187269886 (take out the spaces).


	6. Slow Dance and Truth

Setting: Right after "Prophecy Girl", once they're all at the dance at the Bronze to celebrate their victory.

Inspiration: Angel's "I have no breath!" line. Which was completely absurd. So I made Willow my mouthpiece, because I'm sure she'd agree with me. Then, I decided there was no reason not to include some Buffy/Angel goodness too, since they were all at a dance anyway.

Perspective: Angel's.

* * *

"Slow Dance"

The dance at the Bronze seemed a little surreal after the earlier events of the evening. Everyone enjoying themselves there had no idea how close their world had come to being taken over by vampires and creatures from the Hellmouth. Still, that didn't stop Buffy, Willow, Xander, and Cordelia from having fun. Even Giles had been pulled onto the dance floor by Miss Calendar for a couple of the slow songs, and Angel had danced with Buffy for the same ones.

Angel privately felt that revolving slowly to the music hardly qualified as dancing (though certainly more so than all that jumping and flailing around everyone did during the fast songs), but he'd be content to continue indefinitely, as long as it gave him an excuse to hold Buffy this close, so that he could constantly see, feel, and hear the proof that she was really alive. He couldn't bear to think how close he had come to losing her forever. His gratitude for what Xander had done for her was so strong that he hadn't been able to hold back a smile whenever he saw the boy, despite how irritating he generally found him.

He also couldn't help feeling ashamed. Had it not been for Xander barging into his apartment and brandishing a cross in his face, he might never have gone to Buffy's aid. He would have had no idea that she had changed her mind and gone to face the Master after all—not until it was too late. But all that mattered now was that Buffy was alive, the Master was dead, and the Hellmouth would remain closed.

He saw Buffy smiling up at him then. He smiled back, and held her a little closer.

†

"Truth"

Later, while Buffy was taking a bathroom break, Angel found himself standing next to her red-headed friend—Willow, if he remembered right. He assumed that she would head off to the dance floor to join the rest of the crowd for the song (a fast one), but instead she stayed where she was, occasionally sneaking furtive glances at him. She looked like she wanted to tell him something, but was having trouble plucking up the courage. The next time he caught her looking at him, he locked eyes with her and raised his eyebrows slightly.

She blushed, then stammered, "Uh, Xander t-told me what happened in the Master's lair," she said.

"Oh," said Angel, nonplussed.

"He told me how Buffy was dead, and then he used CPR to bring her back," she elaborated.

"Yeah," said Angel.

"Okay," said Willow, now frowning slightly. She seemed to be gearing up to say what she really wanted to talk to him about. "So, I've just been wondering—how come you didn't?"

"Didn't what?"

"How come you weren't the one who did CPR on her?" she asked. "Xander said you got to her first, so why didn't you?"

Angel stared at her a little blankly. "I can't. I don't breathe."

Willow's frown became more pronounced. "Yes you do," she argued. Then, off his look, she added, her voice rising nervously, "Well, not because you _need_ to, for, like, the oxygen and stuff. But you have to at least go through the motions of it so that you can talk, or growl, or-or use your sense of smell, and things like that."

Angel continued to stare at her. He'd never really thought of it that way—in fact, he'd never really given it much thought at all, but now he realized how often he did breathe, even though it wasn't strictly necessary to survive.

"I-in theory," she went on, "your being a vampire should make you even better at CPR than a human."

"How?" asked Angel skeptically. He still didn't understand how, being dead, he could in any way restore life to someone else.

"Well, just think," said Willow. "When humans breathe, we use a lot of the oxygen in the air we inhale for ourselves, and there's not much left in the air we exhale. So when we do CPR, it's with recycled air full of carbon dioxide. But vampires don't use oxygen, so they breathe out exactly as much of it as they breathed in. The point of CPR is to keep up the oxygen flow to the person's brain until they hopefully start doing it for themselves again."

"You're saying that I could have given Buffy more oxygen than Xander if I'd been the one doing it?" said Angel, who was now starting to feel rather upset at his ignorance and what it could have cost if Xander hadn't been with him.

"Yeah," said Willow eagerly. "And that's not all. I mean, don't vampires kind of have super-hearing, too?"

Angel nodded.

"So you'd be able to know exactly whether the person's heart is beating on its own or not without having to feel for a pulse, and you'd know they're breathing without trying to feel the air on the back of your hand. A human would be much more likely to miss something and mess the whole thing up."

She fell silent, but after a moment, her face fell and her brows knitted with concern. "Uh, Angel?" she asked hesitantly. "I-is everything okay?"

"Fine," he said, not looking at her.

"You know, I'm not surprised you didn't know," she said kindly. "The technique of cardiopulmonary resuscitation has been around for a long time, but it wasn't promoted for the public to learn until the '70s. If you had your education in the eighteenth century, you couldn't have known anything about it. I mean, you weren't training to be a physician back then, were you?"

"No."

"Then you probably weren't even taught what little was actually known about the respiratory system back then, right?" she asked reasonably.

He shook his head.

"And you've been a vampire ever since, so that sort of stuff must have seemed pretty irrelevant."

She definitely had a point there, he thought.

"Particularly back when you were more interested in eating people than in saving their lives," she continued, apparently without thinking, for when she saw the pained grimace that had appeared on his face, she blushed with mortification and stammered an apology at once.

"So," came Buffy's cheerful voice from right next to them, causing them to startle slightly and look around, Willow's face still bright red and Angel unable to meet either of their eyes (or anyone else's, for that matter), "anything interesting happen while I was gone?"


	7. Broadswords vs Sniper Rifles

This one is just a bit of cute silliness.

Setting: Some point after the end of both shows.

Inspiration: I'm not exactly sure, but I know it had something to do with the marathon rewatch of _Bones_ I've been doing on Netflix over the past month.

Perspective: Buffy's, sort of.

* * *

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong or are you just going to keep pouting?" asked Buffy, not taking her eyes off the TV screen. Angel's arm around her shoulders was more rigid than usual, and his silence was less the type of one immersed in the show and more the type of one in an irritable sulk.

"I'm not pouting." His tone was just barely too defensive to be convincing. "You're not even looking at me; how would you know?"

"Spousal telepathy," said Buffy smugly. "Which also means either you can tell me what's wrong or I can tell you—and just so you know, option two will be more embarrassing."

There was an indignant pause. Then: "You're ogling Booth again." The sulky pout was now completely apparent in his tone.

Buffy fought to keep her face straight. "I am, aren't I?" she said with a dreamy sigh, her gaze still glued to the screen, which was currently occupied by one very attractive fictional FBI agent. "It isn't the squint-y techno-babble that makes this show worth watching."

Angel did not respond, and Buffy finally decided to take some measure of pity on him, even though she was still very amused. "I know you're still not quite used to your reflection, but you can't honestly tell me you haven't noticed that—physically, at least—he's pretty much you ten years from now."

"Oh," he said, sounding uncertain. "I guess. It's just…"

"Hard to imagine the years actually affecting your appearance for a change?" she suggested. "Well, maybe for you, but I can see it. And trust me, Booth is you in ten years." At that point, the show cut to commercial and she turned at last to shoot Angel a sly look. "Still annoyed about the ogling now?"

"Not if that's how you'll be looking at me in ten years," he said, his body relaxing and a smirk stealing across his features.

"You can pretty much count on it," said Buffy, scooting closer to fit more snugly against his side and leaning up to press her lips to his cheek with a loud smacking noise. "Brennan can have Booth. I'd much rather have you."

Angel showed his appreciation with a very thorough and tender kiss.

"Mmm, but there's no way I'm waiting ten years before I buy you Booth's jeans," she said once they resurfaced.

"I don't wear jeans."

"Oh, you definitely won't be wearing _those_ jeans for very long, so that shouldn't be a problem."


End file.
